


Vartari

by DSEG



Category: White Collar
Genre: Case Fic, Dog Fighting, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mythology References, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DSEG/pseuds/DSEG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The case came along on a Tuesday, heralded by nothing in particular."</p><p>A new case puts Neal through the ringer, but he might get something precious in exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which there is a new case

The smaller buckskin pit bull lunged and caught his white opponent by the throat. Blood stained both of their muzzles and lay in splatter flowers on the sand of the pit. The white dog went down to the shouts of a small but rabid crowd. It was over. Released from the violence, Neal looked up at Sturluson’s face, caught his blue gaze. Blood lust was written in the lines of his mouth and eyes, in the intensity of his stare, in the hand that gripped the steel rail between him and the pit below. It sent a shiver into Neal’s bones.

*

  
  
The case came along on Tuesday, heralded by nothing in particular. Monday had been all cold cases. Reams and reams of paper with uninteresting crimes and uninspired criminals had flowed through Neal’s hands while he fought to stay awake. There was nothing in the world more boring than mortgage fraud. By the time he’d gotten home Monday night, Neal had almost talked himself into stealing a Renoir just to ensure he’d never see another cold case as long as he lived.  
When he arrived Tuesday morning and saw the team all gathered in the conference room Neal almost pulled a muscle with the size of his smile. Any case was a good case right now.

It had only gotten better. Sitting at the shiny black conference table, surrounded by a team of people that he daily outshone, Peter had presented him a passable case. An anonymous tip had directed the FBI to Vanir Industries. Vanir had begun as a small time manufacturing corp with interests in the US and Scandinavia.  
“Five years ago Brokker Sturluson became CEO of Vanir and got the company involved in new investments. Since then their net worth has shot up dramatically.” Peter paused, looking around the room.

“Too much to be on the level?” Neal asked obligingly, rolling a pen between his fingers.

“Ostensibly, no.”

Neal grinned. “So yes, then. We need to get in there and check it out! You know, Nick Halden has been to Sweden...”

Peter cut him off. “Whoa there. Let’s have a little research first, shall we? We need something more to go on before you start your Halden routine.”

Neal sat back, very definitely not pouting. Diana leaned over to murmur in his ear. “More paper trails. How will you survive it?” He ignored her.

Bringing up a picture on the overhead projector, Peter pointed to it. “This is Sturluson.” In his 40’s, Sturluson was blond and athletic, striking, but not handsome. “Diana, I want you to find me everything there is to know about this guy. I want to know what kind of socks he wears. Jones, I want you and Neal to start tracking their taxes, transactions, shipments, etc. Find me something unusual. Then,” he pinned Neal with a laughably stern gaze, “maybe Halden can go play. Got it?”  
Neal snapped off a salute. Even paper trails were good if they lead to undercover work. “Yes boss! Whatever you say.” Jones rolled his eyes and the meeting broke up into research.

  
*

  
By Thursday they knew that Sturluson was both smart and dirty. Starting with his immigration to America at 10, Sturluson had clearly been determined to make his place in the world. He got a paper route within weeks of arriving in the States and saved up enough to start buying stocks at 13. From there he only moved up, eventually coming away from Cornell University with a MBA at 25.

According to Diana, he had spent the next eleven years moving around from company to company. He rose among the ranks then moved on when he’d plateaued. Only two of the five companies had filed complaints. Neither had been able to substantiate them. There were, however, enough irregularities following Sturluson around that she believed he’d been siphoning money into his own pocket. There was enough cause, barely, to follow Sturluson and Vanir further.

Jones and Neal turned up similar results. There were no glaring irregularities in Vanir’s paperwork. What they did find were little pockets of money appearing here and there before disappearing just as mysteriously. There were hotel bills with no accompanying flight plans and shipments of goods that seemed never to move once they’re reached Vanir’s warehouse. There was nothing that could be clearly called criminal but many little questions that Peter agreed added up.

Their first clear breakthrough on criminal behavior turned up when Neal and Diana pivoted toward looking at Sturluson’s hobbies and possible in-routes for Halden.  
“Dog fighting?” Neal’s lip curled. “I’m not going to a dog fight.” There was no force on earth that could make him watch dogs rip each other apart.

Peter sighed. He, Jones and Diana were gathered around Neal’s desk with Diana’s latest find. “It’s Sturluson’s only permeable hobby. There’s nowhere to ski, events involving ancient Swedish mythology are a bit thin on the ground and we’re not dressing you in drag. Sturluson’s not into much outside of work. Dog fighting is what we have.”

“I could try to get hired into the company straight out. Everyone needs marketing people these days.”

Peter shook his head. “Not Vanir.” He hitched a hip up on Neal’s desk. “Getting you hired without an in will take weeks, and Hughes is not going to devote weeks to a case as flimsy as this. We need you in tomorrow.”

Neal’s stomach did an unpleasant roll. He’d never seen a dog fight in person but he’d seen some of the dogs once. A Bulgarian man in possession of a very fine, very historically significant set of letters had bought himself a number of ex fighting dogs as canine guards. A few well-placed tranquilizers had eliminated any danger but Neal had never forgotten their mangled faces. They were so maimed that they barely looked like dogs any more. He thought of The Island of Dr Moreau. Those dogs were screaming as well. There was no way he wanted to see dogs get like that right in front of him.

“Peter,” he pitched his voice low and leaned in. “I just can’t see this working. Who hires someone at a dog fight? It’s all low level crooks and sadists.”

There was sympathy on Peter’s face but no give. “This ring isn’t like that. This is a classy little operation for the rich sadists who don’t want to hang out with poor ones. You’ll fit in fine. Impress Sturluson enough and he’ll take you.”

Neal opened his mouth, hoping another argument, a better argument, would jump out but Diana cut him off.

“Neal, I know that this is,” she paused, looking for a word, “disturbing, but this is what we’ve got. You know very well that we need a business man, and nobody's going to buy that you just happen to like Norse mythology too. Besides, with you as a witness we’ll be able to close the ring down. Just as soon as we’ve got Sturluson we can send this to the NYPD and have them make a raid.”

The stomach thing was getting worse. They were serious about this. He really had to go and watch a dog fight. He looked up at Peter again, searching the familiar face for some weakness, some chink he could drive a chisel into to break down the whole mask. He knew this was just as disgusting to Peter as it was to him. No man who let a dog walk all over him like Satchmo did could be okay with a fighting ring.

It was there, somewhere in the set of Peter’s mouth. Peter didn’t like making Neal do this. He hated it in fact. Neal saw the flaw and didn’t strike. Peter knew what he was asking. That, it turned out, was enough. Neal nodded.

“Alright. When are we doing this?”

“Now. Go home, get dressed, get ‘Halden’. We’ll clear things with the Marshals and have a GPS watch sent over for you. There’s a fight tonight in the Bronx and you’ll be there.” Peter laid a hand, briefly, on Neal’s shoulder. It said, ‘sorry’ and ‘cowboy up’ because this was Peter, after all. Neal smiled a little, then got up and went home to get into Nick Halden’s skin.

  
*

  
At 7:15 Thursday night, everyone trooped out of the office and down to the street. A Shelby Cobra sat at the curb like a glowing silver mask. It was a clear night; a scattering of the brightest stars were just visible in the livid city sky. There was a strong smell of asphalt in the air as the city breathed out the day’s warmth. Nick was tingling head to toe and very, very alive.

Peter handed him the keys, which were his, after all, and he climbed into the car, which was also his. The silk shirt he wore he’d bought in Italy, his shoes had been given to him by a mafioso. He Belonged here, he would Belong at the fight. When he turned the engine over there was a growl that matched the new streak of cruelty in Nick. He looked over at where Peter stood on the sidewalk watching him. Nick gave him a tooth-bearing grin that wasn’t friendly at all, and peeled out into traffic.  
The ride to the Bronx was startling only in its swiftness. Before he was entirely ready, Nick had arrived at a warehouse along the river with plenty of other shiny cars parked around it. Subtle, this was not.

There were a knot of people outside the side door, all standing together under its orange-yellow industrial light. Most were smoking. All were dressed in the casual elegance of people who had never looked at a price tag in their lives. Nick strolled up, picking out a pretty redhead smoking in a Cynthia Rowley dress. It moved languidly in the faint river breeze.

Nick leaned up against the bricks next to her and smiled over. “Think I could have one? I keep trying to quit, but...” he trailed off with a boyish expression of chagrin.  
The redhead looked him up and down. She had a small mole on the outer curve of her eye socket, just under one cinnamon brow. It made Neal want to sculpt her. Nick pushed the urge down.

She smiled and pulled a cigarette out, handing it to him with a brush of fingers. She lighted him, he admired her rings - none of which were a wedding band - and they fell into a shallow but pleasant conversation. Neither brought up the upcoming fight, though Nick doubted that it was reluctance on her part. There was a thin vibration in her that he recognised as the first anticipatory buzz of adrenaline. She was making the feeling last out here in the dark with a smiling stranger. He played along.

Her name was Leanna, she was from Charleston, South Carolina originally, had moved to New York for a position in Ernst & Young, liked old movies and would probably go home with Nick if he asked. He didn’t intend to. Try as he might, Neal’s disgust couldn’t be deleted. Nick hid it. When the cigarettes were ash and a warmth in the blood, Leanna put her hand on Nick’s sleeve. Her nail polish clashed with the crimson shirt.

“Shall we go in?”

An edged smile. “Lets.” Nick crooked his arm for her and they moved through the steel door covered in scratched white paint and graffiti. Inside there was a large space with a sunken pit in the center. The surrounding area of chairs, makeshift bar and benches was only faintly lit with yellowed bulbs, but the pit had a huge light above it shining starkly white. There was no question as to the focus of the evening. This was an atmosphere of enthusiasts.

Nick made for the bar. It was only correct to buy Leanna something - a cosmopolitan, as it turned out. If he had a glass of Merlot himself, it was only to warm his rigid limbs. They strolled, Leanna chatting with regular acquaintances, Nick introducing himself and being only unobtrusively charming. He was waiting.

It paid off. A few minutes later Sturluson arrived with another man, both of them in business suits. Nick made no immediate move. He watched Sturluson get himself a drink and wander to the side of the pit. His companion made the same rounds that Leanne was, but Sturluson seemed uninterested in his fellow fans. When Leanne was deep in an anecdote about her drunken escapade with an ex, 4 dogs and a mounted police officer in Central Park, Nick made his way over to his quarry.  Leaning forward against the steel rail, Nick stared down and the empty pit for a long moment before looking over at Sturluson.

“Takes a while for them to get going here, does it?” That air of cruelty was back and strong in his voice.

Sturluson glanced over at him. “There must be mingling.” He watched Nick watch the pit.

“Your first time here?” Nick nodded, eyes still on the pit. He showed no enthusiasm for the conversation. “Where have you been going?”

“Jersey. Less refined, maybe, but they get to the point.”

Sturluson nodded. “You pay for your amenities, I suppose.” He toasted Neal with his glass. “I think you’ll like the action though.”

Now Nick could turn and give Sturluson his attention. “I’ve heard good things. Are the dogs in decent shape?”

Sturluson nodded, a grin crawling across his face. “Real fighters, the lot of them. They don’t throw things here either. All the dogs are vicious; any one of them can win.”

“Good. I like a straight gamble.”

“You have any money down yet?”

Nick shook his head. “I want to watch the first fight before I decide if this is where I want to spend my money. How many matches will there be?”

“Six, and you’ll bet on them. This is exactly where you want to be.”

Nick raised his brows. “Oh?”

“You’ll see.” Sturluson put out a hand. “Brokker Sturluson.” When he said his name a Scandinavian depth crept into his news broadcaster accent.

“Nick Halden.” They shook. Sturluson’s grip was strong, just barely this side of an intimidation tactic. Nick ignored it completely. “What do you do when you’re not waiting for the dogs?”

“Manufacturing, investments. A little of this and that. And you?”

Nick sighed. “Nothing right now. I fell on the wrong side of a budget cut.” It wasn’t hard to add a thread of bitterness to his voice. Neal was feeling quite bitter about life just now.

Before he could go into his pitch, the light above the pit went dark. A second later it was on again, illuminating Sturluson’s wide grin.

“Here you go. They’re getting to the point.” Well-dressed men and women converged on the pit, circling it like jackals around a kill. A hand slid along Nick’s elbow; Leanna was back. Below, a short black man with salt and pepper hair walked to the center of the pit.

“Ladies and gentleman, the first fight will begin in one minute. It’s Zero verses Garm. Get any last bets in now. The minute the dogs are out, betting is closed!”  
“‘The wolf shall fell the father of men.’” Sturluson murmured. Nick looked over. The man’s attention was fixed firmly below. After a moment he looked up. Catching Nick’s gaze, he smiled. “Garm is mine.”

A flurry of betting broke out around them. Leanna placed money on Zero.

“It’ll be Zero for sure,” Leanna told Nick, her cheeks flushed. “He’s a big one and he’s won four fights so far.” Her grip on his arm was tight and warm. That faint vibration in her had turned into a quake. Nick was half surprised that he couldn’t actually hear her heart hammering. Neal wanted to shake her.

The energy peaked and crested as two dogs were led, growling and wild, into the pit. Leashes snapped off, handlers fled and the fight was on.

Nick tried to watch, couldn’t and gave the field to Neal. Neal’s hands creaked where he gripped the rail, wanting to scream, to run, to be anywhere but here, watching the sickening fight below. The bigger white dog, Zero, seemed to be winning. He mauled the buckskin dog’s muzzle, tore at his flanks, bit his leg. There was blood everywhere. Then tumble of white and tan fur filled up Neal’s eyes. The smell of blood and excited human clogged his nose. He wondered how mad Peter would be if he vomited.

The buckskin suddenly lunged up and caught the white dog’s throat. In moments it was over. All that was left was the sickening excitement in Sturluson’s eyes.

  
*

 

Warm, clean and alone, Neal exited the steaming bathroom and flopped boneless across his bed. The duvet was soft and welcoming. Neal pressed his face into it and tried to forget the evening. There had been hours of blood and money and the taste of the whiskies that Sturluson had stood him. It had gone on so long that, horribly, Nick had begun to get used to it. The fighting had become background. Some of the rush of undercover work returned while he courted Sturluson and arranged himself a meeting for Monday morning. Coming home, shedding Nick, the faint taste of adrenaline had made it that much worse. Who the hell could get used to dead dogs? Neal, apparently. He pushed his face harder into the bed until he could barely breathe. What a fucker of a night.  
The apartment door opened. Neal didn’t look up. “Go away Moz,” he said through cotton and down.

The bed shifted under him. “I’m not Mozzie,” Peter said, “flattering as the comparison is.” His voice was dry and light. Why shouldn’t it be? He hadn’t had to scrub the smell of the warehouse off his skin.

“Go away Peter.”

“Nah,” Peter said. “I think I’ll stick around a little while.”

Neal scowled into the duvet. “You have all the recordings. I’ll make a statement in the morning.”

“Not the point.” Peter didn’t elaborate and silence fell for a few minutes. Neal could feel the muscles in his back unknotting. Suddenly the warehouse was far away and he was dozing.

A warm hand landed lightly on his shoulder blade. “Sleep well, Neal.”

Mostly there already, Neal smiled, sighed and let go.

 

*

  
Saturday was mostly writing up his report, drinking good espresso and taking a long stroll through as much of Manhattan as he could. Sunday, Neal got a call and went to a command performance at the Burke house for dinner.

He brought a bouquet of dahlias for Elizabeth, a six pack of cheap beer for Peter and a little stuffed alligator that squeaked for Satchmo. He knew that Peter would give him a look for that; Neal didn’t usually bring Satchmo toys. The dog had quite a few too many.

Elizabeth greeted him at the door smelling of lavender perfume and marsala. She bussed him on the cheek, took the dahlias and herded him into the dining room.  
“Neal’s here!” She called up the stairs. There was a thump from above. Elizabeth returned to the kitchen from which glorious smells were emerging.  
“Can I help?” Neal asked, petting an excited Satchmo.

“No, I have this. Peter’s mother loves chicken marsala so I’ve perfected the recipe.”

Neal got up anyway and wandered into the kitchen. Satchmo followed him to the threshold then sat and whined. Neal smiled despite himself. He pulled the inelegant lump of the alligator out of his coat pocket and bent, showing it to the lab. Satch wiggled with his whole body. Neal held it out and Satch snatched it, running over to his bed and curling up to mouth his new friend. When Neal looked up Elizabeth was watching him.

“Oh honey,” she said and leaned forward to brush her fingers through Neal’s hair. She didn’t ask any questions, for which Neal was profoundly grateful. “On second thought, why don’t you set the table for me.” She turned back to the bubbling marsala. “I believe you know where everything is, yes?” she asked archly.  
Just like Friday night, Neal could feel the tension draining out of his spine. “Of course,” he agreed, putting a wink in his voice.

By the time Peter joined them a few minutes later, Neal had the table set with all the best china and a pair of candles merrily burning away. Peter raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He accepted a beer, sat down and watched Neal and Elizabeth chat about her latest catering disaster. Neal could feel eyes tracking him as occasionally got up to wander into and out of the kitchen, over to the sliding doors, back into the kitchen then out to the living room. The frenetic feeling was gone, but it was nice to meander. Neal suspected he was doing something embarrassing like establishing his territory. Fortunately, Peter either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t comment. He was good like that.

Elizabeth kept up a steady stream of light conversation, mainly revolving around her last event. It had been a fundraiser for the CBLDF and had kept her highly entertained throughout. During a story about one very rich guest in a tux and red cape, Peter got up, walked over to where Neal was heading back to the kitchen once again, and caught him by the shoulders. He steered Neal to a chair then gave him a light push. Neal sat. Peter went back to his chair and beer. Smiling to himself, Neal stretched his legs out long and crossed his ankles.

Dinner was languid, punctuated by glasses of wine and easy smiles. Peter waxed poetic about baseball while Elizabeth and Neal poked fun just for the reactions. Neal told harrowing, alleged stories and Peter poked back. The marsala was delicious. No one discussed the case, or any recent cases. Work had been left outside this house that smelled of mushrooms and dog and peace. Neal enjoyed himself immensely, forgetting about bloodied dogs and blue eyes.

  
*

  
Monday, as Mondays are wont to be, was a rude surprise. Nick arrived promptly at 11:15 for his meeting with Sturluson. Vanir was based in Chelsea, owning the entire 5th floor of the Tuckfield building. The front desk was polished steel, and the rest of the office had the same icy shine. Sturluson’s desk was blonde wood, but giant pictures of fjords dominated the walls and a general blue theme made the large office seem much colder than it was. Nick took a seat in the steel chair across from Sturluson and put on his best ‘hire me, hire me right now’ smile.

Sturluson leaned forward. “Good to see you, Nick. I was hoping that our chat wasn’t just fight talk.”

“I never say what I don’t mean,” Nick told him, leaning in as well. “I’m looking for something new, something I can sink my teeth into.” An unbidden image of the little buckskin dog rose in Nick’s mind.

Sturluson nodded. “And I’m looking for someone with fire in him. These days too many people sit back and expect a company to grow all by itself. I want people on my team who want to yank themselves up and take Vanir with them.”

“Watch me,” was all Nick said. It was all he needed to say. Sturluson had seen himself in the walking mirror that was Nick Halden and he was happy. Nick was in.  
There was no desk ready but with Nick’s fervent profession that he wanted something to do as soon as possible they stuck him on an extra desk in the corner of the main flat of office and hooked him up a phone. An understudy named Greger handed him a client that was backing off from Vanir and told him to get them back. It took Neal six phone calls and three hours to pull them back in.

Nick set the black phone back in its cradle and sat back. His chair was deeply uncomfortable, made for a person significantly smaller than Nick. He arched, popping his back. Test one was finished. He closed the folder - ice blue like everything else - and stood. Greger had one of the perimeter offices with windows and real walls. For the moment Nick was out in one of two cubicle typing pools. He strolled over to Greger’s office, smiling at people and taking in the company as he went. There appeared to be about 15 workers in the cubicle sections and 6 window offices, including Sturluson’s. It was a sensible little operation for investments, though how and why Sturluson had made that jump with a company that had been primarily manufacturing industrial parts Neal couldn’t yet see.

Greger was a thin little man with white blonde hair and a startling grin. He looked like a whippet. When Nick knocked he looked up from his computer.  
“Come in. Having any problems?”

Nick suspected that Greger would enjoy his problems far too much. “Not too many,” he said, ingratiating. “Here’s Canix. They’re in for the steel plant and they’ve upped their investment to 3 million.”

Greger’s smile fell, giving him a distinctly sour expression. “Great. Listen, we don’t have much else for you just yet. Why don’t you go see the boss and go home? We’ll have a full load for you on Wednesday.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to throw in with anything you’ve got.”

“I’m sure.” Now Greger was all but glowering. Nick shrugged, tipped his hat and took himself back to Sturluson.

Sturluson was talking on the phone, guttural Swedish phrases rolling off of his tongue. Nick listened, but made nothing out of it. The language had never been a real interest for him. All he could do was order food and ask a lady to dance. After a few minutes of calm growling, Sturluson hung up and turned to Nick.  
“Tired of us already?”

Adrenaline. There was a landmine under his feet. Nick leaned forward. “Give me something.”

Sturluson laughed. “Greger’s jealous already? You must be doing well. It usually takes him a whole week to stop liking someone.” Nick relaxed slightly. “I tell you what, take a walk with me.”

Sturluson shrugged into a coat while Nick dutifully followed him out of the office. He tipped his hat to the receptionist who smiled like a thin, blonde shark. Then they were out of Vanir and back on the streets. Colors lept out from all directions and noise swamped the cool buzz that had taken over Nick’s mind since he’d arrived at Sturluson’s office. _God what a place_ , Neal thought briefly, _no wonder he needs to cut loose after a day of that_. Sturluson was all about the extreme; total icy calm or wild abandon. Nick could see very little in between. It was unnerving.

Nick was ushered around to Sturluson’s Saab. He climbed in, noting the distinct ‘new’ smell of the car. He doubted that Sturluson owned cars long enough for it to fade. They peeled away from the curb, passed two taxis and headed out of Manhattan toward Jersey. For a minute, Nick’s stomach turned. There were a number of dog rings in Jersey; after all that was where he’d ostensibly been a member. Could any of them be running this early? Nick hadn’t researched rings well enough. It had been too stomach-turning. They turned off in Hoboken and Nick abruptly remembered where Vanir’s warehouses were. The panic left him slowly. That was the thing with taking on a persona, fast emotions were noticeable. Nick slowed himself down, smoothed himself through everything.

They parked at a two story warehouse identical to the ones all around it. In the little fenced courtyard two trucks were being unloaded. Crates were hauled by men and forklifts into the shadows of the building. A sharp smell of gasoline permeated everything. An older man was standing by the truck talking to one of the delivery men. He was focused on an iPad, taking down whatever the deliveryman was saying. Sturluson, Nick in tow, walked over.

“Problems, John?” The old man looked up, squinting through thick rectangular glasses. He shook his head.

“Nah, not really. The last half of the rebar shipment won’t be here til Wednesday, but it doesn’t matter. We don’t need it moved out until next Thursday.”

Sturluson frowned but didn’t comment. He left the man to his organizing and strode off into the warehouse. Nick smiled briefly at John but the man didn’t look up. He was going to have to go charm someone in a bar tonight; the last time his smiles had failed so regularly was prison.

Just inside the warehouse was a glassed-in office. Sturluson made for it directly. There were two occupants, a young man who looked like a linebacker and a very skinny woman with a crew cut. The both looked up when Sturluson entered.

“Boss,” the young man said. “What brings you?” He had a strong Norse accent.

“Finn, Max, this is Mr. Halden.” Nick nodded and tried the smile again. The man - Finn? - returned it. Max twitched. Nick noticed a swastika patch on her ratty jacket. He fought back his own twitch.

“Max is our IT department, Nick. She’s the best but I can’t get her to come into the city for anything.” Sturluson looked almost fond as he gestured at Max. Nick hadn’t thought him capable.

Max grunted. She typed something with flashing rapidity and grunted again. Finn grinned over her shoulder at them.

“She means ‘hi, nice to meet you’” he told Nick.

“Clearly,” Nick agreed, making his smile warmer. Max was someone important here. She continued to type, completely tuned into her own world. Sturluson didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he discussed shipments with Finn and gave Nick a rundown of the imports and exports that Vanir handled.

After a few minutes Finn offered a tour and they left the office area, Max still typing away behind them. Friendly as a retriever, Finn pointed out the sections where raw materials came in, where finished goods came in and where they exported the few things made by clients in the States. It was all clear and organized, no obvious unclaimed piles or extra rooms. If they were smuggling then they were doing it properly. No loose ends for Vanir. Sturluson stayed mostly silent, occasionally checking his phone while Finn escorted Nick around. It was by far the most pleasant interaction Nick had had in Vanir so far. He relaxed, taking in the information pouring out of his guide.

  
*

  
Inside of a week, Nick had an office and a reputation. Neal had a headache and the firm idea that something was very wrong at Vanir. Mostly this was based on the glimpses of financial irregularities that he caught. Mostly. The other part of it was a bone-deep buzz that never left while he was in the office or near any other Vanir employee. Nothing in the situation looked dangerous, but no matter how he tried, Nick couldn’t relax into the work. Something set his adrenaline rushing at every smile and word.

The first issue he told Peter all about. He meticulously tracked every scrap of evidence he could find. Peter needed evidence fast if Hughes was going to keep this up. Both of them agreed that Vanir was up to something, but they needed better evidence. Whatever was going on was well-covered and not as clearly related to shipping as either of them had thought. Vanir did not seem to be smuggling, or if they were it wasn’t the main issue. Something else was going down. All this he and Peter chewed over every night when Neal came home, smelling of cologne and adrenaline-sweat. Twice Mozzie dropped in, looking over the rather pathetic evidence and snarking. The second time he stayed after Peter left.

"What’s really going on? Are you doing a job without me?” Mozzie swirled a cab sauv in his glass and took an appreciative sip. Neal scowled at him.

“I’m not doing a job - just playing the good consultant.”

Mozzie raised a brow. “You look like a cat on a hot tin roof.”

“I do not look like Elizabeth Taylor.”

Mozz cocked his head. “No, I could see it. The hair, the eyes. You could do Taylor.”

Neal coughed then laughed. _Elizabeth Taylor, really._ Something tight unwound in his shoulders. It was good to have Mozz around.

“You do, though. Something’s up; something’s got you spooked. What’s going on?”

On the other hand... Neal thought. Mozz was just too damn observant. “Nothing’s going on.” Mozzie just stared. Neal sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Better. What do you think is going on? Is it the Suit?”

“No, nothing like that. Peter’s fine.” Mozzie harrumphed - actually harrumphed and Neal wondered about him sometimes. He ignored it. “It’s Vanir. Something about them just...” He trailed off and shrugged.

“The dog fights?” Mozzie had heard about that and expressed his opinion volubly on his previous visit.

“Partly. There’s something about him - them actually, all of them. Nearly everyone who works there is just... off.” There was the feeling, as Nick worked in his office, that any one of them would not only be happy to shoot him but might do something very disturbing with the blood spatter afterwards. They seemed wild. Like people who would have bathed in the blood of gladiators a few millennia earlier. Mostly it was subtle, hiding in the way Greger enjoyed a rare steak too much and the utterly cold eyes of the receptionist.

“Vampires?” Mozz asked, baring his teeth over the wine. Neal went back to scowling at him. “Have you told the Suit?”

Neal shook his head. “It’s just a feeling.”

“And your feelings about people are utterly unreliable and never amount to anything.”

Neal ignored him. “Do you have anything useful to add?”

Mozzie leaned back. While he thought, Neal pulled out the chessboard and set it up. Chess, at least, was clean. There was never any blood in chess.  
Mozzie took white. They played, Neal castling early then breaking it in a mad run after Mozz’s queen. It failed, but he got a bishop out of it.  
Drumming his fingers on the table, Mozz looked up. “What was the name of that IT woman?”

“Max.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing anyone told me.”

Mozzie finished off his wine and Neal’s last rook. “What did she look like?”

“5’6, white, very short hair, dark blonde or light brown. Sharp nose, thin mouth. Kind of sharp all over.” Neal snagged a scrap of paper and sketched as he continued. “Wore a jean jacket and plain white shirt underneath. The jacket was ratty with patches. I saw a swastika, a Swedish flag, a gun of some kind - maybe a an AK47?” He put a few more stroked lines on the sketch and handed it over.

Mozzie looked it over. “Can I take this with me?”

“Sure. Think you’ve got something?”

Mozz shrugged. “Maybe. You said Sturluson liked her?” Neal nodded. “And he didn’t like anyone else?” He nodded again. The only moment he’d seen Sturluson look even half as fond was when he’d looked at the dog he’d bet on before the fight. “I’m going to guess there’s a reason why, then. And I’m further guessing that it isn’t a warm fuzzy reason. I’ll see what I can do.”

Neal nodded. It was something, anyway. Mozzie checkmated him.

  
*

  
In the end it was Mozzie who’d had the right idea. The next day he dropped by with a raft of information about one Maxine Stahl, alias Sindri. She was, he told told Neal, one of the foremost hackers of the early 2000’s. She’d been successful with a few viruses, but infamous for a worm program that had ripped through a Gothenburg bank taking almost 1 million US dollars with it. She’d then disappeared a few years ago with nothing but rumor credited to her since.

That must have been when she’d moved to Vanir. Interestingly, she, like Sturluson, had a habit of referencing Norse mythology. She’d named the worm program Jormungandr and two of her viruses had been Gungnir and Mjolnir. Neal wondered if that was how they met. There was one more interesting fact; Finn Stahl was her brother.

Neal gave it all to Peter over the phone.

“Great. So she’s hacker-ing money for Sturluson?”

“I don’t think hacker-ing is a word, Peter.”

“You knew what it meant, didn’t you?”

Sigh. “Yes and yes. I think she’s the reason it’s all hidden so well. They aren’t smuggling, they’re skimming money electronically.”

“Wonderful. Prove it.”

“Yes master, right away master.”

“Cute. Try to wrap this up, will you? Sturluson gives me the creeps.”

“You? Try dealing with him every day! I’ll do what I can.”

“Alright. Be careful. I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

  
*

  
It was a Saturday. This was, to Neal’s mind, kind of perfect. Sturluson had no concept of weekends, so Nick could come in and ‘work’ without looking too strange. About half of the office worked on a more usual schedule and would be gone. With fewer peons to stumble across him, Neal might actually be able to wrap the case up before Monday. He put on his lucky blue tie and headed downtown.

The receptionist was gone but inevitably, Greger was onsite. The man was rarely anywhere that Sturluson wasn’t. He gave Nick a sour look from the door of his office. Nick headed straight for his own office, settling in with a cup of very nice kona coffee and a file on a new Swedish client. For the first hour or so he worked steadily as a proper Vanir employee. Around 9:30 he heard Greger leave his office and the door to Sturluson’s office open and close.

Neal bolted up out of his irritating, ergonomic chair and made for Greger’s office. He never spoke to Sturluson for less than fifteen minutes. Now was Neal’s chance. Greger would have access to employee records.

He opened Greger’s laptop and slid a flashdrive into a port. A program popped up immediately, courtesy of Moz, to cover his tracks.

Finding the files was absurdly easy. They weren’t hidden. Presumably, they were therefore unimportant, but Neal downloaded them anyway. It never hurt to be sure. From there he looked through client files and projects. That was where he struck gold. Most had straightforward names - companies or boringly numbered projects such as ‘Rebar Shipments 703’. One, however, hidden away in the middle of the project files, was marked ‘Draupnir’. Neal had looked up the name Sindri after Mozzie’s revelations and run across the treasures of Asgard. Odin’s was draupnir, a golden ring that produced 8 more of itself every 9 days.

Opening the file, he found lists of numbers. At the bottom was another file labeled ‘Sindri’. Neal backed out, downloaded everything, and pulled the flash drive. On steady, silent feet, he walked back to his office. By the time Greger returned to his office, Nick was quietly arguing with the head of investments for Fjalar industries.  
At noon, Sturluson dropped by his office and the three of them went out to lunch. As always, Greger chewed violently on his blue steak. Today it didn’t bother Nick. He was out. In just a few more hours he could turn the drive over to Peter. He was certain the team would find what they wanted in it; every nerve told him he’d made his goal. Greger could be just as creepy as he wanted. It wouldn’t be Nick’s problem tomorrow.

He ordered a wasabi tuna, savoring each bite. The thrill of undercover work was back. While they ate he quizzed Sturluson on new investment strategies. He shone. Sturluson picked at his cod and devoted his full attention to Nick, feeding the high. They moved from business to pleasure, discussing world travel and what to see in each country. Sturluson maintained that the best dog fights on earth were in Italy while Nick discussed its beautiful women. Greger glowered.

The first hint that all was not as copacetic as he thought was when he walked back into the office to see Max perched on the receptionist’s desk. She swung her skinny legs and looked at them all through slitted eyes. Pale skin flashed through the rips in her jeans.

“Hello Max,” Sturluson greeted her. “Thank you for coming in.” She shrugged. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Ja.”

Greger moved up close behind Nick. He could feel the heat of the man’s body through his suit jacket.

“And?” Sturluson prompted patiently.

“Fed.”

Sweat pricked out along Nick’s scalp. He slowed his heartbeat intentionally, breathing deep and easy.

“Ah,” Sturluson said. “What a shame.”

Something hard poked Nick in the back. He did not need to be told what it was.

“Mr. Halden, if you would follow me back downstairs, please?”

Nick Halden was not known for giving up. “What is this? Are you calling me a fed?” He opened his mouth to go on but Max cut him off.

“Neal Caffery. Imprisoned 2005, released as a criminal consultant 2009. Working in the white collar division of the FBI under Reese Hughes. Supervising Agent is Peter Burke.”

“Size 10 shoes,” Neal added. He gave her his best smile. Max did not smile back. The gun in his back pressed harder, forcing Neal to arch his spine. “Killing feds isn’t recommended,” he said, half turning his head to eye Greger over one shoulder.

“No, Mr Caffrey, being caught killing feds isn’t recommended.” Sturluson’s voice was as blandly pleasant as Greger’s face was feral. It made for an eerie combination. He returned his attention to Sturluson. “I’m sure we can avoid all of that, however. Follow me please, and we’ll see what we can do to remedy this situation as easily as possible.”

It was bullshit. Fine, grade A, businessman bullshit. Sturluson’s eyes were gleaming because he smelled blood. Neal would not survive his idea of a remedy.  
That meant nothing to lose. Neal smiled and kept his hands easy by his sides. “Of course. I might be... persuaded to forget all about this.” They might not buy that, but they might buy his calm enough to think that he wouldn’t make a scene. All he had to do was get outside. One gun couldn’t control a situation on the street.  
Apparently someone else knew that.

“[Ingen, vänta](https://translate.google.co.kr/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#sv/en/Ingen%2C%20v%C3%A4nta). He will run. [Han är smart](https://translate.google.co.kr/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#sv/en/han%20%C3%A4r%20smart).” She slid off the desk and strolled over, hands in her jacket pockets. She stuck her neck out and looked Neal over. She should have looked comical, ostrich-like. She didn’t. Her eyes were an unpleasant grey that seemed to be sizing him up for a meal.

Abruptly, one hand whipped out of her pocket. Before Neal could do more than start he felt a prick in his bicep. There was a needle in her hand.

“[Godnatt](https://translate.google.co.kr/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#sv/en/Godnatt),” she said. Neal strongly suspected that it was a terrible cliche.

“So unorig... inori... huh.” He swayed where he stood. _The carpet was made of water!_ Why hadn’t anyone told him? _You can’t stand on water._ He collapsed to his knees. _Can you kneel on water?_ He began to tilt over, then there was nothing.

  
*

  
When he woke, everything was dark and cold and he was naked. His mouth tasted of sugar and copper. Neal levered himself up, then fell down again when the ground moved. Somewhere nearby a car horn blared. _Truck._ He felt for the GPS watch. Gone of course.

Neal hauled himself over to the side of the truck, encountering nothing along the way and took stock. He was stiff enough, and a little sore in the joints, but could feel no real injuries. He curled into himself for warmth, tucking his feet under his thighs.

How soon would Peter begin to look for him? He supposed that it depended on what they’d done with the watch. It they’d been smart and left it somewhere Neal might go it could be well into the night before Peter got alarmed. It had only been 1:00-ish when he was taken. That was far too many hours wherein people might try to kill him.

Finally, the truck stopped. Nearby, a service door opened in a series of metal-on-metal screeches. The truck moved forward again for a few feet, stopped and turned off. Neal stood, wondering if it was better to try and run now or wait. It sucked to have to run around naked, but it would have a benefit too. There was no way he wouldn’t be picked up by the cops, and cops now would be a godsend.

The truck hatch opened. Greger stood on the floor beside it, gun out. _Probably a bad time to run, then._

“Down,” he ordered. He looked gleeful, like a puppy with a new toy to chew on. Neal walked out to the edge and jumped down. He acknowledged neither his nudity nor the gun.

“Walk.” With his free hand, Greger gestured to the left. They were in a loading area with nothing but a steel door on the left wall. Neal opened it and walked through.  
He couldn’t stop himself from hesitating when he saw what was on the other side. They were in the dog fighting ring, the same one he’d seen the first night. The door led out onto the sand of the pit. A smaller door on the opposite side emanated growls and yips.

Sturluson and Max stood in the center of the ring next to a simple metal chair. Greger poked him with the pistol and Neal walked forward automatically.

“Have a seat,” Sturluson invited smoothly. Neal remained standing. Greger pushed him into the chair. It tipped back but didn’t fall. The metal was icy wherever it touched Neal’s skin. Greger handed the gun to Max and began to tie Neal’s hands to the chair with zip ties. Max smiled. Neal wanted, badly, to bolt. It wouldn’t fly, though. He knew that Max was willing to shoot him and, given the way she held the gun, unlikely to miss. He remained perfectly still and let Greger work. He moved on to Neal’s ankles, then stepped back and repossessed the gun.

The ties were tight, already cutting into his skin and making his hands and feet numb. He had the distinct feeling that they didn’t care much about how healthy he remained. He glanced around as best he could but saw no one else in the building.

Max stepped around in front of him, wearing the same disturbing smile. She walked straight up to him, standing between his legs to look directly down at his face. He opened his mouth, ready to talk himself out of death one more time, and she slapped him.

“No talking. Liar. Lögnare. You talk too much. All lies.” She chuckled. “Lies like Loki. Loki Liesmith, Cunning One, Tree of Deceits,” she paused, “Scar-lip. The Man with the Tattered Smile.” She laid one finger on Neal’s mouth. It was cold.

“You know Swedish stories, Swedish Gods?”

When she waited, Neal shook his head. She cocked her head and twisted her mouth. “[Naturligtvis inte](https://translate.google.co.kr/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#sv/en/Naturligtvis%20inte). Americans. Never know important things. You do not know why Loki is Scar-lip?” Again, Neal shook his head.

“Loki told too many lies. Too many pretty words.” With her free hand she reached into her pocket. She pulled out a needle threaded with thick black thread. It gleamed in the pit’s white light.

A hand gripped Neal’s hair and tipped his head back. Sturluson smiled down at him. His pupils were blown, only a thin gleam of blue surrounded them.  
“The dwarves sewed his mouth shut,” he purred.

 _Fuck._ It was all Neal could think. _Fuck_ on endless repeat. Something in his stomach seemed to be twisting and his skin was icy cold. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering wildly in his ears. _Fuck._

Max clamped her hand around Neal’s jaw, pushing his head back. Pressing his lips together.

“You have to bleed, you see.” Sturluson was still talking. “The dogs might or might not attack you without. If you’re bleeding though...” He grinned down, haloed in the light from above. “Well, they’re very hungry. That should take care of anyone finding you.”

Something thin and sharp traced Neal’s upper lip. “I got to choose how. I chose this.” She sounded delighted. “So fitting.”

It hurt. It wasn’t the pain, though, that was worst. It was the panic. Neal thrashed, but Max’s thin hand was like steel. She didn’t move a centimeter. There was a nauseating feeling of something being drawn through his skin. Another bright spot of pain. Neal whimpered, trying to use his shoulders to jerk away from her. She paused.

“Stop moving. I will put it through your eye.” Neal froze. “You hear me?” He remained perfectly still. “[Bra](https://translate.google.co.kr/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#sv/en/Bra).” Another shot of pain. Another stitch.

Another.

Another.

There was a sound somewhere. It was getting louder. Another stitch.

“Shit!” Sturluson.

“Vad?”

“Sirens. Someone’s traced him.”

“We got rid of the trace. It’s a bad neighborhood. They aren’t coming here.” Another stitch.

Louder.

“The hell they aren’t.” Greger this time. “I’m outta here.” Quick footsteps heading away.

“Damn! Dammit all to hell. Drop it Max, we have to go.”

A whine like a dog denied a treat. Her fingers flexed sharply around Neal’s face, bruising. “[Ska vi skjuta honom](https://translate.google.co.kr/?ie=UTF-8&hl=en&client=tw-ob#sv/en/Ska%20vi%20skjuta%20honom)?”

“Now? Are you crazy? Let’s go.” The fingers released. Neal’s head dropped forward. Footsteps. He was alone.

The sirens got louder, wailing in his ears. He breathed, slow, through his nose. His heart began to slow. A door banging open. Shouting. More footsteps, lots of them. Loud. Shouting above him.

“Neal? Neal!”

A door near him opened. Dogs? No. No barking. Just feet through sand.

“Neal?” Near him now. Peter’s voice. “Jesus.” Low, religious in a way Neal has never been. Asking a question of someone bigger than men. “Bring a medic!”  
Warm hands around the back of Neal’s head, cupping his skull. “Can you hear me? Nod, Neal.” He can hear. He nods. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” Thumbs brush wetness away from his eyes. _Am I crying?_ “Neal are you hurt?”

Of course he’s hurt. Can’t Peter see?

“Neal?”

He closes his eyes.


	2. In which relationships are discussed

“We caught Sturluson in a roadblock in White Plains.  Stahl is still in the wind, but we’ll have her soon.”  Peter quirked a reassuring smile.

“Her brother’s still being held for questioning, but he’ll get a deal.”  Not a surprise.  One of the many things Peter had babbled at him on the way to the hospital was that Finn Stahl was the reason he hadn’t ended up dog kibble.  Apparently they had first driven Neal to the warehouse to search him and pick up a truck.  Finn had figured out where everything was leading and called up an FBI hotline as soon as they’d left.  He’d said he could live with embezzlement but not murder.  Neal wondered exactly what he’d thought working with Sturluson would entail.  The man dripped sadism.

There had been a lot of facts flying on that trip in the ambulance.  It was as if Neal’s silence unlocked Peter’s inner chatterbox.  He hadn’t shut up in Neal’s presence yet.

Thus far, things were going quite well.  A local anesthetic and some scissors had freed Neal’s mouth and a routine check had declared him shocky but fine.  They wrapped him in blankets and Peter had made a run for clothes.  He’d just returned with a suit and the news about Sturluson.  

Neal had already signed all the paperwork to check out.  He slipped on his shoes and stood, looking at Peter.

“Right.  Okay, let’s get out of here.”

Neal followed Peter.  Mostly, he felt fine.  All the blankets had done their job.  He was warm again and his mouth was too numb to hurt.  He had a headache, probably from the leftover drugs, but nothing major.  All in all it wasn’t the worst he’d felt after a case.

But it was.  

Everything - the lights of the hospital, the nubbly texture of the over-washed blanket, the smell of Peter’s car as they climbed in - was distant.  Muffled.  Neal did the things he needed to on autopilot.  

It was the shock, he supposed.  Except.  Except he could almost hear the sound of dogs growling, feel a hand on his face, smell Sturluson’s sharp aftershave.  He could feel the way the chair was too sharp against his naked skin.  He could see the glint of light on a needle.

“Neal!”

Neal whipped around, startled.  

Peter was looking anxiously between him and the road.  “Breathe Neal.  Christ.  Just breathe.”

Hadn’t he been?  Neal took a long breath.  It felt like water after a long run.  Out.  Another.  Huh.  Maybe he hadn’t been breathing.  He hadn’t noticed.

“Alright?”  They pulled up to a red light and Peter turned to focus on him.

Neal shrugged.

“Neal...”  A horn blared.  The light was green.  Peter turned back to the road.  There was a pause for which Neal was thoroughly grateful.  He suspected he wouldn’t like where the conversation had been going.

“Say something, dammit.”  Peter’s voice was strained.  

Oh.  Neal gestured theatrically at his mouth.  

“Yeah, I know, but you can still talk.  I just want to hear...”  Peter trailed off again, looking resolutely out the windshield.

Neal hadn’t yet spoken.  The doctors seemed to take it in stride, assuming that it was too uncomfortable.  It wasn’t, really; his whole mouth was numb.  He could talk, it would just sound odd.  There weren’t even any bandages, just a tube of antibiotic cream he was to rub on the punctures a few times a day.  

Trust Peter to ask for the moon, though.  Neal could talk.  He didn’t particularly want to.   _Too many pretty words._  

Neal looked away, out the passenger side window.  They were getting close to June’s place.  All of the buildings were tall and clean; there were BMWs parked on the curbs.  Very soon he could be alone.

“Okay,” Peter said quietly.  “Okay.”  He said nothing else for the rest of the short drive.  He parked around the corner, then got out and opened the door for Neal.  It reminded him of the time after Kate’s death.  All solicitation and worried glances.  He frowned, walking resolutely toward the house.  Peter followed along behind.  Neal hoped that wasn’t a sign.  He wasn’t up for a fight with Peter just now.

Thankfully no one was downstairs.  Neal headed up, Peter dogging his heels.  At his own door, Neal stopped.  He half-turned to look at Peter.  

“What?”

Neal tried to smile with his eyes.  Faking a smile that way, it turned out, wasn’t particularly easy.  He felt like a confused method actor.  Going for broke, he made a quick shooing motion with his hands.

“Oh no.  I’m not going anywhere.”  Peter crossed his arms and spread his feet into one of his classic statue-in-the-park impressions.

Neal dropped the smile.  He just stared impassively at Peter, hoping he would give up.  It had never worked before but hell, today was a new day, right?  

Peter didn’t move.  “I’m coming in.  I’m making sure you have food and whatever pills are involved.  Jesus Neal, just let me...”  he trailed off, shoulders hunched.  “Just let me.”  

Neal sighed through his nose, but unlocked the door and let Peter precede him in.  So much for being alone.

Peter immediately made his way to the kitchen.  He pulled out a beer, one of the Sam Adams that Neal stocked just for him.  “Are you hungry?”

Neal was running out of patience fast and ignored him.  He shrugged out of his suit jacket and hung it over a chair back.  It looked good there - normal.  Safe.  He walked out to the bathroom and closed the door.

For a long moment, Neal just stood still.  It was the first time he’d been alone since the FBI had found him, naked and humiliated in the middle of a dog pit.  He leaned his head against the door panel.  It was rough against his forehead.   He breathed and stared at the faint lines of woodgrain through paint.   

“Neal?”  Peter’s voice was quiet and close.  Only an inch of wood stood between him and Neal.

Neal sighed and straightened up.  He flushed the toilet and made a loud play of washing his hands and face.  It felt strange to run a palm over his numb mouth.   _Just a little while longer.  Peter has to go home sometime._

Coming out of the bathroom, he walked lightly, easily.  He made his shoulders loose and his arms lively.  Peter was sitting on the sofa, drinking his beer and watching Neal.  He sat across from him and waited patiently.  He did his level best to look cheerfully condescending.

“Should you have washed your face?” Peter asked, gesturing to a few strands of dripping hair.

Neal shrugged.  It was his new best trick.

“Put some ointment on, at least”  Peter dug some out of the little bag and tossed it to Neal.  Neal didn’t open it.  The thought of touching his mouth just now, in front of Peter...  He set it on the arm of the sofa.

Like a flower wilting, Peter curled in on himself.  He scrubbed his hands across his face.  “Shit.  Alright.  Shit.”  He looked up at Neal.  His eyes were red and dry.  “Should I go?  Is it better if I go?”

Ignoring a pang of guilt, Neal nodded firmly.  It sucked that Peter had to deal with all Neal’s crazy.  He got that.  But for today that’s just how things were.  He pretended that Peter’s tired slump didn’t bother him at all.

“Okay.  Just call, Neal, if you need anything.  You got that?”  Neal nodded.   _No chance._  Peter scowled as if he’d heard Neal’s thoughts.  “Right,” he said skeptically.  He narrowed his eyes and stared for a minute, apparently thinking things over.  “I tell you what - don’t come in tomorrow.  We’ll take the statement Monday.  Just relax and get your head back together.  I’ll stop by tomorrow night.”

Get his head together.  Right.   _Cowboy up, Neal._ Neal just nodded.  Finally, after another round of staring, Peter left.

The ointment was greasy and smelled very medicinal.  He smeared some on his lips, trying very hard not to think about what he was doing.  The Neal curled up on one end of the sofa and stared out at the lights of New York.  He didn’t move all night.

 

*

 

When Peter got home, El was unpacking a bag of Indian.  She smiled, bussed him and handed him a fragrant box.

“Lamb mango?”

“Of course.”

Peter shrugged out of his suit jacket and settled on the couch, too tired and hungry to bother changing.  “What did I do to deserve you, again?”

“You were wonderful.”  She leaned over the back of the sofa, her small hands warm on his shoulders and kissed his head.  He leaned back, appreciating her closeness.  

“I don’t feel very wonderful.”

“Hmm.”  She kissed him again, a quick peck, then pulled out the rice, naan and raita.  She laid them all out on the coffee table, pulled out her chicken saag and settled in next to Peter, pressed up against his side with her legs curled up beside her.  It made her look like the young woman he’d married so many years ago.  All that was missing was the cheap rosewater perfume she’d used back then and a pair of sweatpants.  Something settled in Peter’s stomach.  He took a generous bite of the lamb mango.  It was hot, sweet and perfect.

“How’s Neal?” she asked when he’d had a few more bites.  

“Not so good.”  He fished out a piece of naan and used it to scoop up a hunk of lamb.  She nodded.  “He won’t talk.”

El cut a look at him, eyes wide.  She didn’t have to say anything.

“I know,” Peter said.  “Who’d have thought we’d ever see the day?”  He scowled then, gripping the naan too tightly.  It tore in his fingers.  “I don’t like it, though.  It’s all wrong.”

“Do you think he’s pulling something?”  
For once, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.  He flashed back to Neal, bound to that chair, his eyes wide and blank.  The lamb settled uneasily in his stomach.  “No.”

El just nodded and nudged him toward the food again.  After a minute she jumped into a story about a recent catering job that had gone wrong from the beginning, emphasizing the bizarre humor of dealing with a self-proclaimed ‘crocodile enthusiast’ and his wedding.  Peter listened and laughed once, when the story of the marzipan teeth came out.  He sank slowly back into the sofa, muscles unwinding.  Before he realized it the lamb was gone.

“Come on.”  El stood and took the dishes and containers to the kitchen.  Peter trailed behind, holding his glass and feeling out of step with everything.  El took the glass, then his hands.  “Let’s go to bed.”

He followed her up to the bedroom and watched her undress.  There was something terribly comforting about the revealed curve of her hip.  He shed jacket and tie, feeling freer with every piece of Peter Burke, Senior Agent that he removed.  El crawled into bed and beckoned, eyes kind and body wicked.  Peter joined her, sinking into the blankets and her soft skin.  He mouthed gently at the side of her neck, feeling her gasp and squirm when he zeroed in on the spot right beneath her ear.  It felt so good to have her here, loose and happy beneath him.  He could do this for her, make her feel good.  El would let him.

Peter focussed entirely on her.  He ran his hands over every inch of skin, possessing her and gentling her at the same time.  She caught his mood and relaxed, letting him set the pace.  Peter trailed kisses over her breasts and down the bones of her hips.  If he imagined kissing hips that were narrower and spreading thighs scattered with dark hair, he didn’t let the thoughts linger.  El was with him.  El would let him please her.  Each kiss was a gift, each of her moans was the return.  Peter buried his face in her cunt, drowning in her slick saltiness while she bucked and held him tight with her thighs.  He brought her over twice before he entered her, searching for something in the softness of her body.  El held him tightly and whispered encouragement but it took him a long time to come.  When he did it felt like grief.  

 

*

 

Peter went into the office in the morning to do some of the paperwork for Sturluson.  El slept late, still restless from the night before.  When she woke she let Satchmo into the backyard and took her coffee out into the sun.  She had some thinking to do and it always went best outside.

It was hardly news to her that Peter and Neal were close.  They’d been close before they’d ever met.  Peter had talked about Neal constantly during that initial chase and she could hear the amusement and admiration in his voice along with the frustration.  It would be a lie to say that it never bothered her; Peter had a habit of forgetting dates and anniversaries when he was too focused.  It never really worried her though, not in the sense that Peter might put someone ahead of her on purpose.  

When she’d gotten to know Neal she’d actually gotten less worried.  Neal would never steal Peter the way he stole paintings and smiles.  He would never try.  Neal was a romantic at heart and a gentleman too.  Whenever Peter and El had a tiff it appeared to hurt him physically.  He looked at their love the way he looked at a Matisse - it was a thing above nature to him.  Moreover, he liked El.  They got along, easily sliding into a strong friendship.  He wouldn’t hurt her.

Of late, El had noticed that Neal wasn’t dating.  Peter no longer talked about him romancing anyone outside of a case.  Peter hadn’t noticed but El had.  Neal spent his time with them or with Moz and June.  He joined them on their weekend outings, ate dinner with them, walked Satchmo on warm evenings.  He knew as much about El’s catering jobs as Peter did and could tell either of their preferences right down to the weird pine toothpaste that Peter favored.  Part of it was typical Neal snooping, but increasingly, El thought it was more.  He watched Peter when he thought no one was looking and El could see the want in him.  Most telling of all, he let himself be not-perfect with them.  He trusted them to see him tired or stressed or in his ridiculous glasses.

Until last night, El hadn’t been quite sure how Peter felt.  He liked Neal, loved him even, but she wasn’t sure what sort of love it was.  She saw him watch Neal’s ass on occasion, but frankly, who didn’t?  She was fairly sure she’d caught Clinton doing it once.  He cared about Neal, worried about him, wanted to support him.  But she didn’t know how deep it went.

This case had stirred everything up. From the very first, Neal had been edgy.  It had made Peter edgy too.  The worse it got, the more El could see how badly he wanted to soothe Neal.  It was so rare to see Neal actively shaken.  Peter had been outright solicitous the weekend after the dog fight.

And Peter wasn’t the only one.  Something about the way Neal had stared at Satch that day made El want to hold him.

Last night, Peter had been lost.  His horror and helplessness had bled out all over his face.  When he made love to her, El had known.  He was doing for her what he couldn’t for Neal.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought.  It smacked of losing everything she had.

But Peter wasn’t planning to leave her.  He wasn’t planning anything, actually.  She could see very well that he didn’t know what to do with himself or Neal.  If she ignored this, it would never have to affect her relationship.  But it would affect Peter and it would affect Neal.  And, maybe, it would affect her because that rainy look in Neal’s eyes made something twist in El.

El had read Cyrano de Bergerac in college.  Even then it had stricken her as patently ridiculous that three people couldn’t get themselves together and work something out that involved less dramatic deaths.  She had been quite sure that a menage a trois could have solved everything.  

She took another sip of her coffee and watched Satch doze in a patch of shade.  It had been a lot easier to judge people in a play.  

By the time Peter came home, El had made up her mind.  It had taken another whole pot of coffee and she had a slight sunburn along her nose, but she was sure that she wanted to try bringing Neal into their life.  

Peter looked whipped, so she sent him up to bed for a nap while she fooled around in the kitchen.  Neal would be sore and hungry so she set herself to making snacks that wouldn’t unduly irritate his mouth.  Never that confident in the kitchen, she let the cooking distract her.

Peter woke up around 5 and came down, sleep-bleared and rumpled.

“Hi.”  He kissed her on the lips.  “Whatcha making?”

“Snacks for Neal.  I want to come with you tonight.”  Peter pulled back and frowned.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, El.  He’s…” he trailed off for a moment, then shook his head.  “This threw him.  He wasn’t very interested in company last night.”

“All the more reason.  He needs support; this whole case was very frightening.  Neal isn’t used to violence.”

Peter shrugged uncomfortably.  “You’re not wrong.  He isn’t phased by much but this case did it.  I think he doesn’t want us to see that, though.”

“Well, he’ll have to get used to it.  Love means support.”

She threw it out casually, and watched Peter out of the corner of her eye.  He started and turned to look at her.  She threw herself into arranging little trifles into a picnic basket.  

“El?”

“Do you love Neal?”  She was more frightened than she’d thought she would be.  Her hands shook while she arranged a layer of towels around the trifles to keep them in place.

“El,” Peter said again.  He took her hands and forced her to turn and look at him.  “I love you.  I will never not love you.”

El nodded.  She tried on a smile, but it felt weird and she let it die.  “I know that.  Do you love Neal?”

Peter looked helpless, as lost has he had last night, buried in her and so far away.  She held his hands tightly.

“I’m not mad.  Do you love Neal?”

Peter nodded once.

El let out a long breath.  “So do I.”

Peter started again and stared at her wide-eyed.  He didn’t say anything for a long time.  Slowly, his face calmed and the tension went out of his hands.  She could see him thinking carefully.

“Just to be sure,” he finally said, “when you say love…”

“I love him romantically.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully, no longer frightened.  He’d already worked out that she didn’t mean ‘instead of’ but ‘as well as’.

“He’s still under my authority.”

El smiled a little, for real this time.  “When has that ever stopped Neal?  I don’t think we need to worry about you abusing your power.”

Peter grimaced, but didn’t disagree.  “It would have to be a secret.  We would have to sneak around all the time.”

“Well, Neal will like that.”  Peter didn’t smile at the joke and El sobered.  “I know.  But it’s worth it.  Love is worth it.”

Peter closed his eyes and was still for a very long time.  Satchmo clicked his way into the living room and nosed around his bowl looking for any leftover bits of lunch.  He whined pitifully at them, then moved to lean against El’s leg.

“Okay,” Peter said.  He opened his eyes and leaned in to kiss El.  When they finally broke apart she was breathless.

He went to feed Satchmo and she continued packing the basket.

“How do we do this?”  He made it sound like the beginning of a case.

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you sure Neal is going to want this?”

She thought about the way Neal would sometimes sit, boneless on the couch between them, utterly trusting and happy.  “Yes,” she said and Peter didn’t argue.

They discussed it on the ride over to Neal’s, turning scenarios over and nailing down some of their thoughts and hopes and worries.  Peter, as she knew, had gone on a few dates with men in college but none since and was intimidated by Neal’s smoothness.  El privately suspected that Neal would be a lot less smooth in the moment.  El herself was worried that Neal was less attracted to her and would feel obligated to romance a woman he might not love.  Peter had scoffed at that, but the thought niggled in her mind and refused to be ignored.

Neal met them at the door.  He was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt.  El could see the little row of irritated punctures around his mouth.  It was a lot different than hearing about it.

As Peter had predicted, Neal didn’t look to happy to see them, but he gestured them inside and took a seat at the table.  El set the basket on the table and moved to hug him.

Neal flinched.

El froze.  Neal had never flinched from her.  She had never seen Neal flinch, period.  Something roiled low in her belly.  

Neal got up quickly and went over to the sink, pulling down two wine glasses.  He poured something deep red and brought it back, handing them each a glass.  He did not sit back down.

Reasoning that talking about it would only make him more uncomfortable, El opened the basket and began pulling things out.

“I wasn’t sure what would be best, so I made a few little things.  It was kind of fun, I don’t get to experiment much in the kitchen.”  She rambled on about the food, seeing that Peter, at least, was relaxing.  Neal just stood perfectly still behind his chair.  When she’d finished arranging her picnic she smiled up at him.  

“What looks good?”

Neal stared at her intensely for a second, then his face twisted and he bolted out of the room.  The bathroom door slammed and after a moment they heard retching.  

Peter had stood when Neal had bolted and taken half a step after him.  He stood wide-eyed and swore.  

El felt a little faint.  She sat back down slowly and discovered that her hands were shaking again.  The sounds coming out of the bathroom were wretched.   _Jesus_ , she thought, and then, helplessly, _Neal._

The tap turned on and drown out any further sounds.  She looked from the closed door to Peter and back.  

“What just happened?” she asked him because she had no idea.

“I don’t know.”  He ran a hand through his hair and sat back down, looking a year older.  “Jesus, El, I knew it was bad, but…”

‘But’ indeed.  

A minute later the door opened and Neal walked out, doing his very best to look casual.  It was an impressive effort, but even Neal couldn’t erase two minutes of listening to somebody heave.  He strolled over to the table and dropped into his chair looking cheerfully apologetic.  He pointed to a medicine tube by the sink and shrugged.

“Bullshit.”  Peter sounded actively angry.  El understood it, but it wasn’t going to help.

“Neal, sweetie, you don’t have to con us.”  He shot her a perfectly shallow, perfectly innocent look.  “It’s ok not to be ok.  That’s why we’re here.  We just want to help.”

Neal’s face went very blank and he just looked at her in perfect silence.  It was unnerving, but she tried to ignore it.  She met his eyes levelly.  

El knew that she was losing.  She didn’t know the right words and Neal was slipping away, protecting himself the only way he knew how.  In another minute Neal would find some way to chivvy them right out the door.  She decided to take a risk.

Moving quickly, El got up and rounded the table, coming up next to Neal.  He drew back but she ignored it this time and put her arms around his shoulders, drawing him in to her and tucking her chin over his dark head.  He tried to pull back, but she tsked at him.

“Stop that.”  She ran one hand slowly over his back and held on.  He stopped fidgeting but remained tense.

“I’m right here.  This whole case sucked and hurt but I’m right here and it’s over.”  She said it over and over, stroking his back until she finally felt him start to relax.  She heard Peter get up behind her and Neal tensed up again.  As he came around the table she caught his eye and glared a warning.  Now was no time for ‘cowboy up’.  

Peter seemed to have gotten that, though.  He looked terribly uncomfortable, but not unsympathetic.  He walked around behind Neal and put both hands on his shoulders.  He didn’t say anything, just stood quietly while El reassured Neal.  Gradually Neal went limp.  El pressed her cheek to the crown of his head.

“Better?” she asked.  Neal nodded a little.  She stepped back and gave him some space.  Peter didn’t.  He stood like a guard over Neal, hands gentle but firm on his shoulders.  Neal didn’t seem to know what to make of it.

“Have you eaten?” Peter asked.

Neal looked shifty.

“Did you use the ointment?”

He perked a bit and nodded, bending back to look up at Peter.

“Have you opened your mouth?”

El winced a bit, but Peter was never anything but straightforward.  In the end, it was probably the best approach with someone as slippery as Neal.

Neal scowled and made to get up.  Peter kept him in the chair.  “Oh no,” he said, “we’re going to talk about this before you keel over from hunger.”  Neal looked mutinous.  Peter looked at him assessingly for a moment, then bent over and pressed a light, upside down kiss to Neal’s lips.  

Eyes wide, Neal froze.  After a moment he looked at El, who smiled encouragingly.  If anything, his eyes got bigger.  El felt a moment of inappropriate hilarity.  With eyes that round he really did look like a cartoon character.

Looking both supremely uncomfortable and determined, Peter cleared his throat.  Neal’s eyes shot to him.  “I like your voice.  I like your smile and your bullshit and your ridiculously pretty lips.”  He met Neal’s eyes.  “Don’t let them win.”

After a moment, Neal’s eyes narrowed.  He stood up, pushing through Peter’s hands and turned around.  Very deliberately, he wrapped a hand around the back of Peter’s neck and drew him in.  Peter went.  From what El could see, Neal was definitely opening his mouth now. She saw a flash of tongue.   A light flush rose over Peter’s face.  When Neal broke the kiss Peter looked a bit glazed.  El sympathised.  She felt the same and she was just watching.   

They stared at each other.  El cleared her throat and Neal jumped like she’s tasered him.  He looked like he was expecting that, in fact.  She just grinned, a little dirty.

“My turn?”   

After a startled moment, his eyes went dark.  He stumbled over to her, clumsy with haste and bent down.  He hesitated a breath from her lips.

El closed the distance.  He was warm and his lips were moist with the taste of her husband.  She was gentle, mindful of his wounds, just lapping at the corners of his mouth.  He didn’t seem to share her concern though, thrusting his tongue out to lick at her tongue, her teeth, her palate.  El lost herself in the slightly sour taste of him and the feel of his hands gripping her shoulders like she was the last thing on Earth.

 Peter came up behind him, a solid foundation.  His hands settled tentatively on Neal’s hips and Neal broke the kiss to look back at him, unguardedly hopeful.  It seemed to reassure Peter, and his hands became more firm.  

“Hey,” he said.  “You ok?”

Neal smiled like he’d won the lottery.  He still didn’t speak, though.  

“Do me a favor?”

Neal cocked his head.

“Eat something.”  

A frown began to descend, but at Peter’s beseeching look it turned rueful.  “Please?” El asked, adding her own best puppy look.  Neal snorted, but sat back down peacefully.  He pointedly picked out a piece of zucchini gratin and popped it into his mouth.  El rewarded him with a squeeze to his knee.

They let some of the emotion calm while Neal ate, though quite a lot of lingering looks were traded.  El re-told her crocodile party story, adding even more silliness to make Neal smile and chuckle.  Peter segued to the latest baseball game and the light dinner passed easily enough.

After they’d cleaned up and re-packed the basket, Neal looked at them, awkwardly silent and unsure.

“I think”, El said, “that we have a lot of talking to do.”  She said it easily, making it clear that none of the talking would be unpleasant.  “However, for tonight, would you mind if we stayed, Neal?  Nothing more, we just want to stay with you.”  Peter looked a little surprised, but when Neal glanced over to him he nodded.

Neal gave an expansive ‘my house is your house’ gesture and a nod, but his smile was smaller and truer.  They settled in to watch a TCM movie, tucking themselves together on the couch with little effort.  El was almost surprised at how well they fit together.  They fit just as easily in the bed after the movie ended, Neal safely gathered between them.     


	3. In which things are wrapped up

Neal woke up hot with his left arm totally numb.  He opened his eyes and stared into El’s sleeping face.  Tendrils of dark hair curled over her cheek and splashed across the pillow and his arm, which was trapped under her.  Delightfully, her breath was light and whistled slightly.  Neal had never heard anyone sleep whistle before.  He was honestly enchanted.

Behind him, Peter shifted and nudged his leg harder against Neal’s knee.  Neal lay very still and absorbed the comfort of two whole people wrapped around him.  It was more than worth numb limbs and some sweat.  Diffuse light spilled into the room.  Outside, Neal could hear the traffic and life of the city.

_Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning and the first thing that I heard was a song outside my window and the traffic wrote the words..._

He had always loved New York.

After a few minutes the heat and his bladder were too much to be ignored.  Graceful as a cat, Neal climbed over his bedmates and headed for the bathroom.  Washing his face and hands, he stopped and stared at himself for a long moment.

The face in the mirror didn’t look so different.  Same blue eyes, same sharp lines, same dark hair.  Objectively, a damn good face for a conman.  People automatically liked beautiful strangers more.  Neal didn’t understand it, but he used it all the same.  

Lies.  Even his face was a lie.

He sighed through his nose and dropped his gaze to his mouth.  His lips looked fine, and the little pinpoint red spots around them were clean and uninfected.  They would heal quickly and leave no sign. “Tattered” was an overstatement.

Liesmith.  Scar lip.

He pressed two fingers to his mouth and deliberately remembered the feeling of Peter’s lips and tongue.  Peter had kissed like a firestorm, like he expected nothing so survive it and couldn’t even care.  It wasn’t really a surprise; Peter was awfully passionate beneath those suits.  Only a passionate man could have caught him.  

The memory helped.  So did the memory of Elizabeth’s sweet kiss and unyielding arms.  She was an amazing woman.  Neal hadn’t let anyone comfort him like that since he’d left home at 15.  Even Kate was held at bay, content with a flawless unreal boyfriend whose sole attention was fixed on her.  Peter and Elizabeth had broken through most of Neal’s walls.

Of course, they’d had help this week.

Neal shuddered and dropped his hand.  He briskly washed his face, combed his hair and smeared ointment over the punctures.  Out in the apartment he put on a pot of good kona coffee and pulled eggs, canadian bacon, swiss cheese, and some leftover sauteed spinach from the refrigerator.  Stove on, dribble the pan with a touch of oil, crack eggs, whisk with a little milk and salt, chop the bacon and swiss.  None of it required thought.  The coffee began to brew, filling the apartment with the smell of morning.  Eggs were poured into the pan and left to set.  He fished a bottle of thyme out of the cupboard.  Thyme made everything better.  He snickered at the pun.  The eggs were looking good; he put in the spinach and bacon.  After a long moment he flipped the thing.  He put the cheese on top and covered it with a lid.

There was movement on the bed.  He turned down the heat on the stove and poured the coffee into three mugs.  Milky and slightly sweet for Elizabeth.  Black for Peter.  A touch of cream and lots of raw sugar for himself.  

Someone padded across the floor into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Peter rumbled.  Neal held out his mug.

Peter watched while he checked the frittata and re-covered it.  On the bed, Elizabeth was stretching and yawning widely.  

“What time is it?” she asked.           

“Eight ten,” Peter reported.  

She sighed.  “I meet with the Carrolls at ten.”  She got up and went to the bathroom while Neal plated the frittata and cut it into pie slices.  He and Peter sat down.  

Peter was watching him.  This was hardly new, but it made something under Neal’s skin itch.  He ate in small, tidy bites, trying not to think of the process of fork into mouth.  The coffee warmed his stomach.  Elizabeth came back out of the bathroom, looking surprisingly put together for someone who’d slept in her shirt.  She took a seat and dug into breakfast, complimenting Neal’s cooking.  He shrugged.  Frittatas always sounded impressive but they were stupidly easy.  Perfect morning-after food.  Of course, this wasn’t a morning after.  Neal wasn’t sure what it was.

When she was done, Elizabeth stood and leaned over to peck Neal on the mouth.  He held himself still, then smiled at her.  She didn’t look like she bought it, but she ran a hand through his hair and wished him a good day at the office.  She did the same to Peter and was gone.

Peter finished more slowly, still watching Neal like he was the world series.  Neal finished, washed the plates and began to dress.  Really, he heeded a hot shower but it was getting late and he didn’t want Hughes to get in a huff.  He picked out the grey Dior and a shirt with thin blue pinstripes.  It would bring attention to his eyes and away from his mouth.  Behind him, Peter finished and dressed.  His gaze was like the desert sun beating pitilessly on Neal’s skin.

They took the subway, Elizabeth having taken the car, and got to the office just before 9.  Neither spoke until they were in the elevator.

Peter looked straight at Neal.  “Can you talk to give your statement?”  Try as he might, Neal couldn’t make out either pity or annoyance.  There was nothing in his voice but the question.  

He tried.  He opened his mouth, tried to find a ‘yes’ somewhere in it.  There wasn’t one.  He looked helplessly at Peter and shook his head.

“Alright.  We’ll do it on paper.  Let me handle this.”  

 

*

 

Peter took Neal straight through the office, not stopping even for Jones’ welcoming back slap.  He went up to his own office and closed the door.  Neal, still terrifyingly silent, followed and propped a hip on the edge of the desk.

“Sit.”  Peter pulled out a sheaf of plain printer paper, wrote the case details on the top with the the date and handed the whole thing to Neal.  “From Saturday morning until we found you.  Go.”    

Neal took him as his word, settling in to the task.  Peter watched his lovely copperplate flow across the paper.  It was something.  It wasn’t that too-cocky voice, but it was something.  When he was sure that Neal had things in hand, he went up to Hughes’ office.

“Peter.  Sturluson is up for arraignment tomorrow; how are we doing?”

“Not sure yet, I’ll check in with Jones in a minute.  That’s not why I came in, sir.”

“Oh?”

“We have a problem.  Neal isn’t handling this Sturluson thing well.  He won’t speak.”

Hughes raised both eyebrows.  “Neal Caffrey won’t speak?  Praise the day.”  Peter scowled and Hughes sobered.  “We can arrange a psych appointment for him today or tomorrow.”

“I doubt that will help.”

“It’s going to have to.  We need him on this case and we need his statement.”

“He’s writing that now.  It can hold us over for a few days.”

“Not at the trial, though.”

Peter sighed.  “I’m hoping it won’t last that long.”

“Hmm.”  Hughes leaned back in his chair.  “I can’t say as I blame him,” he said thoughtfully.  “That was a disturbing scene.  I would have recommended a few sessions with psych, anyway.”

“How’s that going to help if he won’t talk?”  Peter heard his voice rising.

Hughes sent him a quelling look.  “As you’ve just demonstrated, he can write.  I’m sure our psychologists are perfectly capable of dealing with whatever stress he has over this.”

Peter was nowhere near so sure.  Neal could run rings around everyone he met and the lack of a voice probably wasn’t going to stop that.  He was quite sure that Neal could run a con purely by post it notes.  Hughes was clearly done talking about it, however, so he turned the conversation to the details of the case wrap up.

When Peter emerged Neal was back at his own desk in the bullpen.  Jones was sitting with him and they both appeared relaxed.  Reluctantly, Peter went up to his office and read through the neat statement sitting on his desk.

It was illuminating, to say the least.  They had figured out that Sturluson would use the dogs to dispose of Neal’s body, but not that he planned to kill him that way.  It also answered why mouth-sewing had popped up at all.  Peter had been perfectly aware that it was symbolic, but not of the attachment with mythology.  Thoughtfully, he opened up a browser window and searched for the story.  It took him a few minutes, but eventually he found it and read it through.

The tale was strange enough and not really related to anything that had happened except at the end.  Loki, having been too boastful and lost a wager, was supposed to surrender his head.  He argued that his neck was not part of the deal and thus he couldn’t be beheaded.  Peter had to admit, that sounded like Neal all over.  In retaliation, the dwarf he’d lost the wager to sewed his mouth shut to silence his boasting and lies.

The whole thing turned Peter’s stomach.  He couldn’t help but sympathise with Loki when Neal’s face was so clear in his mind.  The thick black thread had looked so obscene across his full lips.  Peter was grateful that they hadn’t suck closely enough with the story to use an awl.  He could picture the damage it would have done.

Hs stomach was tight.  Peter shut down the browser and looked out over the office floor.  Neal was at his desk, doing something on the computer.  He looked relaxed and normal.  This far away Peter couldn’t see the punctures around his lips.  He looked hale and handsome and just the same as he had a week ago.  Peter traced those lips with his eyes and remembered their taste.  Neal was his and Neal was going to be ok.  That was that.  Determined to put the whole thing out of his mind for a while, he went back to the case paperwork.

Around 11 Hughes emailed him that Neal had a psych appointment at 4.  He finished off the file he’d been on and went down to Neal’s desk.

“Caffrey.”

Neal looked up from a printout of Sturluson’s tax records.  

“You have an appointment with a psychologist at 4.  Don’t argue.”  He could already see the storm on Neal’s face.  “It’s standard procedure.”  Neal clearly didn’t buy that.  He gestured sharply, slashing his hand through the air and shaking his head.  Peter shook his head.  “Deal with it.”  He left before Neal could make any further complaint.

A half hour later he found the trail he’d been looking for that proved Sturluson’s illegal activities were nothing new.  They had enough to hang him on the worm and aggravated assault, but Peter wanted that psychotic motherfucker put away for as long as possible.  With a lengthened history of fraud and what looked like a possible tie to an arson that had befallen a shipping company over in Sweden, the case was iron.  Sturluson was going down hard.

Peter didn’t come up for air until almost 1.  His stomach was achingly empty.  He closed down the report and shuffled everything away.  Jones and Diana were already gone.  Neal, however, was still at his desk looking at something intently on the computer.  Peter made his way down.

He set one hand on Neal’s shoulder and the man jumped like he’s been burned.  Neal whipped around to look at him, eyes huge in a suddenly pale face.  Peter felt a stab of guilt.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, embarrassed.  Looking away, he caught a glance at what was on Neal’s desktop.  It looked very familiar.

“Boning up on your mythology?” he asked dryly.  Neal glared.  Peter raised his hands in surrender.  “Ready for lunch?”  Neal shrugged, but he got up and put his hat on, which was enough.  

Peter hung a left outside of the building and headed for Mott Street.  He wanted to have a real conversation and he wanted some good food to do it with.  Italian was always the best.  The afternoon was overcast but warm.  The city smelled alright today, exhaust buried under a clean summer smell and Chinese cooking.  The strolled up through Chinatown to the edge of Little Italy.  Peter made for a favorite date-night restaurant that he and El frequented.  Neal followed.

He paused when he got a good look at the place.  Looking over the menu outside the door, he raised his eyebrows comically at Peter.  Peter shrugged.  He wasn’t always cheap.

They went in and shared a tiny wooden table scarred with long years of history.  The place was small and very rustic Italian.  There was nothing shiny to be seen beyond brass lamps and silverware.  It suited Peter perfectly.  Once over the surprise, Neal seemed quite happy too, taking everything in.  The thoughtful mood he’d been in seemed to have fallen away.

“Lunch is on me.  Get whatever you want.”

Neal stared again.  Peter felt his face heat a little.  “I want to talk to you.  Outside of the office.”  Something painful seemed to fall in Neal’s eyes.  Peter hastened to reassure him. “It’s nothing bad.”  Neal assessed him for a moment, then, finding whatever he was looking for, he smiled brightly and opened a menu.

One veal saltimbocca and chianti pointed to, he reached across the table and nudged Peter’s arm.  

“Wait until I’ve ordered, ok?”  Neal sighed, but did, looking over the few other diners and charming the waitress without a word.  She was a petite girl with deep brown skin and a lovely flash of smile.  She was also utterly under Neal’s spell.  Peter forced a surge of jealousy down.  The waitress didn’t know how Neal tasted; he did.  When the orders were safely in and they were as alone as anyone in Manhattan, he began.

“First of all, none of this will affect your tracker or our deal.  You don’t have to do anything more than you are to stay out of prison.  Do you understand that?”  No matter what El had said, Peter needed to hear it from Neal.  Just imagining Neal thinking he had to sleep with Peter… It made him sick.    

Neal patted his hand and nodded.  

“You’re sure?”

The hand stayed over his and Neal nodded once, so firmly that his hair fell over into his eyes.

It felt, cornily enough, like there was a weight lifting off Peter’s shoulders.  He went for broke.  “Do you want this?  Me and El?”

Neal didn’t respond right away.  Conversely, that reassured Peter.  Neal could sell a romance like nobody’s business.  He clearly wasn’t selling anything now.

The wine came, along with Peter’s coffee.  He didn’t comment on it; a glass with lunch was hardly going to affect Neal.  He sipped at the coffee and watched thoughts dart across Neal’s face like minnows under a pond.  The coffee was strong and good and it settled him enough to wait.

Eventually, the hand still over his gave a little squeeze.  Neal caught his eyes and nodded again.  He had the same look he did when he was in the presence of great art.

“Good.  So do we.  We’ll have to be careful and it can’t ever come into the office.”  There was a ‘duh’ look on that overly handsome face now.  It made Neal look younger.  

The food came a minute later and Peter devoted himself to a very tasty lasagna.  It certainly deserved his attention, and Neal seemed to feel the same way about his meal.  They ate quickly, but Peter didn’t feel rushed.  For a lunch date it was one of the best moments he’d had in years.

Peter paid and they left.  Loath as he was to break the mood, Peter didn’t want to go back to the office without addressing Neal’s silence.  The thing was, though, that he had no idea what to say.

“Neal…” he trailed off, still looking for some way to bring it up which didn’t sound either stupid, pitying or callous.    

A light hand touched his arm and was gone.  He slanted a glance over.  Neal had a rueful look on his face.  He pulled a notepad out of his jacket and unclipped a pen from the spirals at the top.  Peter was a little flattered that Neal hadn’t bothered to use it with him until now.  Something was written and it was passed over.

I know.  I’m working on it.

“Okay.  Just,” he flailed for a moment, “If you need anything, that is…”

Neal bumped him with his hip.  Message sent and received.  They headed back to the office.

 

*

 

The psych appointment was a complete bust.  Neal knew it would be, but he had half-hoped that it might help.  He knew he needed all the help he could get just now.  

Leslie, a grey-haired lady with enough turquoise to fund New Mexico, had been very nice.  She had adapted easily to talking with him via notepad and had asked intelligent questions.  Neither mothers nor ids had been brought up and there was nary a couch in sight.  Frankly, Neal hadn’t expected one.  He had a healthy respect for the study and practice of psychology.  He just knew it didn’t work too well on him.

The problem was that Neal lied for a living. He was generally in control of those lies, painting them across scenes to create better pictures.  When he was around psychologists, though, it didn’t work that way.  If he was trying to cooperate he would spin something that sounded real, something that made sense.  It would be a perfectly textbook reaction or reason or detail; it would be so textbook that Neal would believe it too.  Hours or days later that Neal would realize it was total bullshit.  It was very frustrating.

Typically, this session went about how he expected.  Leslie asked him things.  He scrawled sensible, reasonable answers on the notepad and felt a bit better.  An hour after the appointment, when he was shutting down his computer and trying to figure out how to say goodnight to 10 people at the same time with no words, he realized that none of it had been true.

Neal sighed and flipped his hat on.  It was time to call Mozzie.  He’d be worried anyway and Mozz was a lot better at seeing through his bullshit.  He gave the office a finger wiggle wave and followed Peter down to the garage.  He pulled out the notepad before they got to the car.

My place - dinner with Mozz

Peter just nodded and held the door for him.  Neal would have found it strange, but it actually wasn’t the first time Peter had done that.  He chalked it up to an overactive control instinct.

Peter briefed him on the info he’d found that day while they drove, outlining the history of fraud and possible violence.  They had Sturlusson cold, but were still looking up the links to Stahl and Neal’s buddy Greger.  Stahl was still in the wind and they only had assault and accessory to fraud on Greger.  Neal doubted they’d nail him on much more.  Greger was a born toadie.  Stahl, though, she was another breed.  He would have to bring her up with Mozz too.

Mozzie wasn’t at the apartment when Neal got home.  He took off his suit jacket and looked through the refrigerator.  It was stirfry or nothing tonight, so Neal pulled out the veggies and began to chop.  It was soothing to focus on the flash of the knife and the varicolored vegetables spilling across his counter.  It wasn’t until he was finished that Neal realized how much time had passed.  Mozzie was running late.  

He boiled egg noodles and whipped together a thin thai sauce to go over everything.  Mozz came while he was rinsing the noodles.  

“It smells good.  Thai?”

Neal nodded.  

“White with Thai I think,” Mozzie said and raided his wine collection.  He poured two glasses and sat down at the table.

“How are you?”

Neal shrugged.

“What happened?  Did you find the worm?”

He nodded.

“Neal?”

He sighed and turned around.  Mozzie was frowning, taking Neal in carefully.  Turning off the heat under the stirfry, he sat down across from Mozzie and tried to find some words in his mouth.  There weren’t any.

After a minute of increasingly uncomfortable silence, Neal pulled out his pad of paper.

Found the evidence.  Got kidnapped.  Feds showed up and caught them.  

“Good, I guess.  What’s with the paper?”

Neal winced.  Tact never had been a strength of Mozzie’s.  He fiddled with the pen.

“What happened?”  Mozz sounded dangerous now, like a pissed off mama lion.  It was nice but unhelpful.

Stahl sewed my mouth shut.  It felt very strange to write that sentence.  

“Seriously?  Very Viking.”  Neal gave him a sour look.  “It’s open now, right?”

He nodded.

“So the problem is…?”

He shrugged.  

Mozzie sat back and looked him over.  He seemed to be in no hurry, so Neal went back to dinner.  It was done in a few minutes.  When he put the plates on the table Mozzie was still watching him and sipping his wine.  

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Mozzie began telling him about the latest government cover-up.  It involved time machines.  Neal relaxed and listened.  Personally, it had never occurred to him that an Afghan vet had killed JFK.  When the glasses and plates were empty, Mozzie went quiet again.  He stared very hard at Neal.

“What did she say?”    

_Too many pretty words._

Neal flinched.  

“Aha!” Mozzie said, because sometimes he was a cartoon character.  “Well?”

The hell of it was, Neal knew that lying and evading might feel great right now but they wouldn’t do shit to help him start talking again.  He’d texted Mozzie precisely because Mozz never bought his bullshit.  Now was the moment to cowboy up.

He wrote it down and passed it over.  It made his skin feel too tight.

“Huh.  Well, she wasn’t wrong.”  Neal glared.  “She wasn’t!  That’s the point, Neal.  A con is only as good as the bullshit he can spout. ‘Mundus vult decipi ergo decipicatur.’  The world wants to be deceived so let it be.  That’s what you do.”

Not anymore.

“Eh.  You will.  When you’re sure that she’s locked up and no one’s hiding any needles.”

Speaking of… Stahl’s in the wind.   

“I’ll look under some rocks.  She won’t go far.  Sturlusson was her meal ticket and without him she’s going to have trouble.  Too intellectual, not enough street smarts.”

Neal wasn’t sure he agreed, but Mozzie was the best person to find a hacker, so he let it go.

Mozzie took off not long after, citing a meeting with someone who had a Soviet-era spy base to sell.  Before he left, he looked Neal dead in the eye with unusual gravity.  “Don’t force it.  This whole thing has been messed up.  You’ll be fine; don’t get all high strung about it.”  Then he gave a little nod and let himself out.

Neal decided, for the moment, to take him at his word.  He cleaned up the kitchen and spent an hour sketching hand studies before falling into bed.

He woke to a harsh scraping sound.  

There wasn’t even time to roll over.  Hands grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him out of bed.  He hit the floor with a crack and lay for a moment, disoriented.  Then the hands were back and he was yanked to his feet.

Stahl was sitting in a chair two feet in front of him.  She looked the same as she had the last time Neal had seen her, military jacket and all.  She sat leaning forward with her legs spread.

“Thank you, Erik,” she said.  Neal tried to twist and get a better look at her newest accomplice but the hands clamped on his shoulders prevented it.  All he got was an impression of muscles and red plaid.  Stahl laughed.

“You think that Brokker is my only friend?  Oh no, Lie-Smith.  I have many friends.”

There were only two of them.  Stahl had no visible weapon.  Better yet, he had felt no weapon from the man behind him either.  If he had a gun, he would have brought it out already.  Neal cleared his mind of sleep and adrenaline and focussed.  He could get out of this if he could think.        

Fighting the man behind him wasn’t an option.  He was large and strong and Neal was only ‘scrappy’ at best.  Physical confrontation wouldn’t end well without some other edge.  That only left talking.  Unfortunate.

“You cause me so much trouble.  Brokker was very kind to me and useful.  He understood.  Now you ruined it.  I will never find another so perfect.  I will be stuck with idiots again.”  She glared.

Neal said nothing.

“I hate snitches.  I looked at your history, Caffrey.  You used to be good.  You were cold, interesting, free.  What happened?  Too many years playing bitch-boy in prison?”

Shahl was lacking in creativity tonight.  She’s been much more on her psycho-game last time.  Her hands were white knuckled on her knees and there was something off in her shark smile.  Something was making her nervous.  

Neal shrugged.

Her face twisted viciously, making her look inhuman.  “Bastard!  Betrayer!  You will die!”  Her voice rose until she was shrieking.

It clicked, then.  Neal was a little ashamed that it had taken him so long.  Betrayal.  Of course.  Finn.

“I’m not the one you want, am I, Maxine?”  He was talking before he even thought about it, words running like warm honey from his lips.  “Oh sure, I put a wrench in the works, but I’m not the one who really betrayed you.”

“Shut up!”  Stahl looked demented.  The hands on Neal’s shoulders tightened.

“Finn sold you out.  Your own brother thought you were psycho enough to go to the cops.  Wow.”  He drew it out, making a big, mocking ‘o’ of his mouth.

It worked.  Stahl lunged out of the chair.  The movement startled Erik and he reflexively let go.  Free, Neal leapt sideways and grabbed for the lamp by the bed, sweeping at the mirror and bronzes with his other arm.  Everything crashed spectacularly to the floor.  There was no way June wouldn’t hear it.  The cavalry would be on its way shortly.  All he had to do was survive that long and pray that he hadn’t been wrong about a gun.

So far so good.  There was a switchblade in Erik’s hand.  Not great, maybe, but a damn sight better than a pistol.  More worrisome was the glass all over the floor.  He hadn’t thought that all the way through.

Nothing for it.  He pitched the lamp at the tangle of Stahl-and-goon.  With desperation substituting for skill, he dove over the end of the bed and out toward the living room.  He felt a line of pain along his thigh and yelped but he didn’t slow down.  He skidded up to the sofa, vaulted over it, and landed awkwardly on one ankle.  It connected with the lightning storm of pain in his thigh.  

The door was right in front of him.

But Erik was right behind him.  He snagged Neal’s arm and yanked him back, hard.  Neal pivoted and found himself face-to-neck with the largest, blondest man he’d ever seen.  The switchblade slashed at his face.  He jerked back and used all of his weight to drive a foot sideways into the man’s knee.  Erik went down with a grunt.  Neal made for the door.

Exploding out into the short hallway, he slammed the door behind him.  He put all of his weight against it.  There was a dresser five feet away, but he didn’t dare move to push it over.  Stahl banged on the door and swore loudly, but her goon seemed to be down for the count.  Neal hoped he’d broken the bastard’s knee.

“Neal?”  June’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Call 911!”

“I already did, dear.  Are you ok?”

“Fine, June.  Just had some unexpected guests.”

The rest was anti-climactic.  Stahl threatened all sorts of retribution, but was too slight to shift Neal.  He rested and breathed and waited for the NYPD to save him.  Strange thought.

Stahl and her moaning colleague were briskly bundled off while a paramedic saw to the two inch cut on Neal’s thigh and wrapped his ankle.  As soon as the cops got Neal’s name a call went out to the FBI.  Neal sat sideways on his couch icing his ankle and waited for Peter.  Peter would come because Peter always came.

A half hour later Peter not only arrived, but brought the real cavalry.  Elizabeth plopped down behind Neal and arranged him to lean against her side.  As she put an arm around his shoulders, Neal felt the last of the adrenaline drain away.  

“Hi, sweetie.”

Neal looked for words in his mouth and found them.  “Hi, Elizabeth.”  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peter, talking to a detective, snap around and stare.  A grin bisected his face.  Neal smiled back.

“How are you feeling?” Elizabeth asked.  

Neal leaned back more, trusting her with his weight.  “Better,” he answered honestly.

With Peter there, the questions and answers portion of the evening went much faster.  With a promise of written statements in the morning, Peter saw the officers off.

He perched on the arm of the couch and looked Neal over.  He looked ready for some heavy talking.  Neal had had enough talking for the evening.  It could wait.  He twisted around and captured Elizabeth’s face with one hand.

“Hi,” he said and smiled winsomely.  Then he kissed her.  Her lips were warm and damp and absolutely the best thing in the world.  It felt like he was falling into her.  All of the stress and fear began to melt away.  Her hands came up to frame his face.  They kissed passionately but with no hurry.  Everything had already been settled.  Neal ran his fingers through her soft, thick hair and luxuriated.  She was really here.  She loved him.

Peter’s eyes were a weight on Neal’s skin, but he seemed content to wait as long as they liked.  Neal was beginning to suspect a voyeuristic streak.  Very convenient, as Neal was perfectly aware of his own exhibitionist tendencies.  

 

*

 

They were beautiful.  Two dark heads bent, hair twisting together, bodies entwined.  How had he gotten this lucky?  Peter felt a moment of worshipful awe.  It had taken so long to get here.  Time to take advantage.

“Maybe we could move this to the bed?” he proposed.

Neal pulled back from El and glanced over, eyes wide and dilated.  “Bed?”  His befuddlement was ridiculously cute.  Peter resolved never to let him know that.  

“Bed.  Where three people will fit better.”

El smiled at him.  “Good plan, honey.”  She chivvied Neal upright and helped him hobble to the bedroom.  Thankfully, all of the glass had already been swept up.  Peter had no time for household chores just now.

They lowered Neal into the center of the bed.  Peter took charge of the pajama shirt.  Each button revealed smooth skin and sharp angles.  Peter ran his hands over the warmth of  Neal, felt the drum of his heart and watched his skin flush.  It had been years since Peter’d had a male lover.  Since college, in fact.  There was an illicit thrill in strumming Neal’s flat copper nipples and watching them peak.  Neal gasped and something surged pleasantly in his groin.  Saliva flooded his mouth and he bent down to bite and suck, exploring the stiff peaks with his tongue.  Neal arched his chest and his hands came up to clutch at Peter’s head.

Somewhere below, El was tugging at Neal’s pajama bottoms.  Neal was already too far gone to assist.  He squirmed helplessly in their grasp.  Blood rushed to Peter’s cock.  There was nothing like Neal in surrender.  He slid one hand into the small of his back and lifted.  

“Thanks, hon.”  El grinned impishly at him.  

Naked, Neal was a thing to behold.  Honestly, Neal with all his clothes on was a little too pretty to be real.  Naked, he was a sculptor’s fantasy.  Peter sat back a little and took him in.

“Peter?”  Neal was so beautifully responsive.  His voice was slurred and rough after only minutes of kissing.

“Relax.”  He smoothed a hand down Neal’s torso to his thigh.  “I just want to look at you.”

Neal rallied a bit and grinned.  “I hope you want to do more than that.”

“Oh, we do,” El answered for him.  She leaned forward in one smooth motion and swallowed Neal’s flushed cock.  Neal yelped and bucked like he’d been stung.  El rode the motion out, hands steady on his hip and cock.  Neal whined and shivered all over.  After a moment, he flailed and grabbed Peter’s arm, pulling him down for a kiss.  He tasted of El and desperation.  Peter invaded, exploring the hidden world of Neal’s mouth.  This was the mouth that had conned men and women out of their money, their jewels, their art.  This was the mouth that had talked its way into and out of trouble for years by Peter’s side.  There was a terrible tenderness in Peter’s chest.  He gentled, carefully kissing Neal’s lips.  This brilliant mouth had had a hard week.      

Neal didn’t seem interested in gentleness.  He moaned and retaliated, possessing Peter’s mouth with frank determination.  His hand was iron on Peter’s neck and another thrill shuddered through him.  Neal was strong. The man jerked suddenly and groaned aloud.  El let out a teasing laugh.  Clearly, the real action was at the other end of Neal.  Peter gave him one more firm kiss and slid down to lay next to El.  She made room, curling to the right around Neal’s hip.  Peter thrust a hand under Neal’s thigh and tugged at it.  Obediently, Neal spread.

Peter lowered his mouth to the strong line of inner thigh.  He fastened on to the white flesh and clamped down, sucking hard.  A hand fell lightly to his head.  He could hear Neal’s breath hitching wildly.  He moved up and inch and sucked again, leaving a trail of red bruises in the shape of his mouth.

At the apex of those white thighs, he pressed his mouth to swollen, tender balls.  Neal shouted and jerked.  Sensitive, then.  Peter grinned.  He lapped at the fragrant skin.  When he glanced up, Neal was staring down.  There was an expression of total erotic wonder on his face.

“You, you…” he couldn’t seem to get a sentence out.  Peter pulled one teste into his mouth and sucked.  El nudged him in the side.  She took as much of his cock as she could and began to hum tunelessly.  Peter pressed a knuckle to the smooth skin beneath Neal’s balls and very gently nipped at his scrotum.  Neal made a sound Peter had never heard before and went totally stiff with the strength of his orgasm.

Peter watched El’s throat work.  His jeans had become outright painful.  He fumbled with the button and shoved them down his hips.

El pulled back and kissed Neal, sharing the flavor of him.  It was one of her favorite tricks.  Neal appeared to appreciate it too, sucking lightly on her tongue.  

She turned to Peter and he lost himself in the mingled flavor of his wife and Neal.  It was intoxicating.  When they broke apart, Neal was watching avidly.

“Can I watch you?” he asked softly.  “I want to see you together.”

“Of course,” El told him and kissed him again.  Then she pulled back and undressed.  Peter followed suit, feeling a little strange that there’d been one orgasm already and he hadn’t even gotten his pants off.  God, the things Neal did to him.       

 Neal propped himself up against the headboard.  It gave Peter an idea.  “El, lay down in Neal’s lap.”  He grinned challengingly at Neal.  “You need a good seat for the show, right?”

Neal swallowed hard, eyes wide again.  El settle herself against him, freely moving him around until she was comfortable.  Peter leaned down to kiss her, trailing his lips down along her jaw to her ear.  

“You looked so beautiful swallowing him down,” Peter told her.  He nibbled at her earlobe and felt her squirm.  Her hands came up and clutched at his ass, encouraging.  She was not in the mood for foreplay.  Neither was he.  He bit at her white neck and guided himself to her wet cunt.  She was fire hot.  He groaned helplessly, lost in her.  She wound her legs around his hips and squeezed his ass.  

“Fuck me, Peter.  Now!”  

One smooth thrust.  She hissed and pulled harder at him.  He thrust in hard and she shouted.  

“Yes, like that!  More!”

God he loved it when she got dictatorial.  He got up a hard rhythm, pushing her bodily into Neal.  It wasn’t going to last long.  Sweat dripped down onto her stomach and breasts.  A strong hand came up to massage her breast and tweak her nipples.  Neal’s hand against El’s flushed breasts was the most erotic thing Peter could imagine.  It was a goddamn work of art.  Orgasm was coiling in his balls.  He braced with one hand and reached down with the other.  El was slick and swollen.  He pinched her clit between his index and middle finger.  She shouted and curled up into him.  Her cunt spasmed around him.  Peter groaned loud and deep and it was over.      

There was a minor earthquake as Neal shifted them around.  Curled up against El with Neal’s fingers in his hair, Peter got his breath back and gave thanks to someone.  It had taken years and prison sentences but they were finally here.

Eventually they got up long enough for a glass of water and a quick washcloth bath, then they fell back into Neal’s wrecked bed and breathed each other in until morning.  

 

*

 

El woke, sweating heavily and sandwiched between two men.  Sun poured in and highlighted the base of the bed.  She yawned and stretched, wiggling out from between Peter and Neal.  Peter didn’t even shift, but Neal opened one blue eye accusingly.  She smiled at him.

“Sleep.”

Relieving her bladder and the terrible taste in her mouth, El walked out to the livingroom to take in the morning.  There was something wonderfully decadent about feeling the sun on her bare skin while she took in the view of downtown.  A hawk wheeled high over the buildings, as miraculous as the blue-eyed man in bed this morning.  El felt incredibly light.

After a bit, she put on a pot of Neal’s fancy hawaiian coffee and scrounged for breakfast.  She would never be a gourmet cook but she could manage all the basics.  Feeling whimsical, she settled on toads-in-a-hole with nice bakery bread.

Neal wandered out a few minutes later wearing only his pajama pants.  He settled at the kitchen table and watched her, a small smile on his face.  She passed him a cup of coffee when it was done percolating.  

“Sleep well?”

He stirred in cream and a touch of raw sugar.  “Like a child.”

She waited until he’d taken a sip.  “We’ll have to fuck you to sleep every night, then.”

The coffee didn’t come out is nose, but it was a close thing.  She giggled while he glared at her.  “That wasn’t nice.”

“On the contrary, you were very nice.  Delicious even.”

To her absolute delight, a very fine red flush started over his nose and along his cheekbones.  Teasing him was a joy.  She plated up the first toad-in-a-hole while he searched for words.  He caught her around the waist when she put it in front of him.  His kiss was warm and coffee-flavored.  

“You are a wicked woman, Elizabeth Burke.”

She put an extra sashay in her hips walking back to the stove and winked over her shoulder.  Neal chuckled into his coffee.  He looked 5 years younger and 50 times lighter this morning.  He hadn’t looked this genuinely happy since the start of this horrid case.  Peter’s breakfast went into the oven to stay warm and she settled across from Neal.

The eggs were perfectly runny and the toast was flavorful.  Everything seemed slightly better than usual this morning.  Even the sounds of traffic from below had a symphonic quality.  They didn’t talk, just ate their eggs in peace, exchanging warm glances.

When Peter got up, Neal went to take a shower and El called in to see if she could get Yvonne to take over for the day.  She had to promise a spa day for Yvonne’s birthday next month, but then she was clear.  The day was hers.

Peter and Neal had to go in long enough to take Neal’s statement that morning, but Peter secured the rest of the day off in deference to their interrupted night.  They would all meet at the house later.  El suspected that there would be as much napping as sex in their future, but that was fine with her.  All she wanted was to be near her two lovers.  Peter and Neal headed out before 9.  They agreed to pick up lunch on the way back.  El took the subway, curiously warmed by the rush of the train and the murmur of other commuters.  Nothing could be wrong today.  

Satchmo greeted her ebulliently.  They walked around the block, sniffing trees and observing squirrels.  When business was taken care of, she got him breakfast and went upstairs for a bath.  In the back of the cupboard was a fancy jasmine bath oil someone had brought her back from China.  She ran a hot bath and poured it in.  Today was a day for luxuries.  Besides, Peter loved it when she smelled of flowers.  The water was silky when she climbed in.  

She soaked for a long time, rolling the memories of the previous night through her mind like bright marbles.  Each kiss, each moan shone in her mind’s eye.  When she was pruney and impatient for her men, she drained the tub and went downstairs.  

It was only 11.  Peter and Neal wouldn’t be back for at least another hour.  Restless with her need for them, she wandered around the house, straightening and staring out windows at the bright sunshine.  

Finally, she heard the car park out front.  Satch barked excitedly and ran to the door. Peter came in first, burdened with bags of fragrant lunch.  Neal followed, shutting the door and kneeling down to greet Satchmo.  Peter kissed her and went into the kitchen.  El waited and watched Neal.  His smile was wide and genuine and his eyes were brighter than she’d ever seen them.  He ruffled his fingers through Satch’s golden fur and laughed.  El could hear freedom in it.  The rest of their lives was starting.

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest, plotty-est fic I've ever written. Thanks for reading.  
> Comments are beloved.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Sturluson quoting from The Ballad of Vafthruthnir


End file.
